Take Much More
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Sherlock had run. After the events at Sherrinford, he ran off to solve cases in another country. Now he's in trouble and Mycroft has sent Molly to fix things. There's always a cost, though, isn't there? Inspired by Keane's Hamburg Song. A mild M for language and adult situations.


_This is my dark and angsty take on the aftermath of Sherrinford set before __the HEA ending we all saw. There is some medical business, a bit of injury talk, nothing too graphic - nothing we wouldn't see in the show - but you have been warned._

 _Though I did do some research on the medical stuffs, most of my questions were answered by my amazing husband. Thanks, my love! I do not deserve you or your extensive medical knowledge! Huge thanks to MizJoley for betaing this and helping me out with the notes (oddly enough) this time._

 _ **This story is no longer a "songfic" but I think I am allowed to say that it was 'inspired' by 'The Hamburg Song' by Keane. As per website guidelines, I have removed all of the lyrics. They are still on the story on AO3, however, if you'd prefer to read the story as it was originally written. I got called out by a vigilant and conscientious reader.** If you are not familiar with this song, please give it a listen. To me it IS Sherlolly._

 _I have owed MrsMCrieff a story for our "fanfictionfriendshipanniversary" for ages and ages, so this is for her to make up for my lateness._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 _So sorry, Mrs!_

 _You know I love you and cherish you with all my heart. Hope you like this, my precious friend._

* * *

She stood in the doorway, arms folded, observing the man whom she thought was her friend, her dear friend even, as he shivered on the filthy bed.

 _Sherlock Holmes: the love of my life,_ she thought. _I think he's pissed himself._

He was facing away from her, but he knew she was there, she was sure of it. How long would he allow this to go on; her watching, him ignoring her? She didn't know and she also didn't care.

"It's infected. I can smell it from here," she said, moving away from the door, further into the room.

"That's the room." His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "This is no place for a lady, Molly, you should go."

"After I've come all this way? I think not." She had made it to the bed. Reaching down, she pulled away the dingy blanket. The smell was almost overwhelming. " _Jesus_ , Sherlock. What have you done?"

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"Your calf is in shreds and oozing puss… you're filthy!"

"I've had a rough time of it, Molly. I might could use a paracetamol and a plaster if you happen to have them on you."

"I have a full med kit, thank you very much. But I'll not do anything until we leave this hole and get you clean," she said, picking up some of his clothes (not everything, mind, the bloody, half shredded trousers she was happy to leave for the cleaning staff) and shoving them into the black duffle bag she'd found on the floor.

"And where are we going?" he asked, rolling onto his back with a grunt. "Not England. I'm not leaving yet. It's not solved…"

She straightened and said, "Of course not, Sherlock. I'm here, aren't I? I'll fix you up so that you can get back to the business of slowly killing yourself. It'll be grand."

o0o0o0o

It hadn't been easy but with the help of Mycroft's two goons, they had managed. They were now in a four-star hotel suite. Sherlock was on the toilet (" _Can't a man take a shit in peace?"_ he had yelled loud enough for her to hear), that's where the goons had taken him whilst Molly set up her makeshift triage in the lounge. He should be in hospital, of course, but he'd never go. She was shocked to her core that he hadn't thrown her out. Well, perhaps that was because he was physically unable, but nevertheless…

The argument they'd had earlier about her need for his piss was still ringing in her head. He kept switching between angry and jovial. When goon #2 had brought her the urine sample, she'd immediately started testing. _I'm sure he enjoyed weeing in front of a pair of government agents_ , she thought with a smile. If she hadn't seen the evidence of the drugs test with her own eyes, she would have sworn that he had been using, but illness could make a person (especially a person like Sherlock) just as erratic. _Especially if..._ She was quite worried about what the second test had revealed. _Infection_.

But _where_ was the question? Was it localised to the wound or something much worse? He was fevered and weak. The wound looked awful but she was afraid that the infection had spread to his blood.

Having finished with her supplies, Molly walked into the bedroom, her goal was to pass through and knock on the bathroom door to check on Sherlock. However, she found him, panting, and gripping the bedpost, a towel loosely wrapped around his narrow hips.

"Sherlock!" she shrieked as she lunged for him. The stubborn bastard was supposed to call her before trying to get up from the damn loo!

"I'm fine, Molly. Just taking a little break. I think I'll make camp here and start for the summit in the morning," he said, gasping between every other word.

"You're an idiot!" She pulled his arm around her shoulder and put her own arm around his waist.

"Genius, actually."

"For a genius, you do some pretty idiotic things." They inched forwards. "Is this okay? Can you make it to the lounge or should I bring my things in here?"

He looked down and smirked. "Always trying to get me into bed, aren't you, Molly?"

"You're an arse!"

"Make up your mind. Am I an idiot or an arse?"

"An idiotic arse!"

"I set you up nicely for that one."

o0o0o0o

He lay on the settee as Molly knelt on the floor and cut away the necrotic tissue from the wound on his leg. It was a fecking mess! She had already cleaned his leg thoroughly, but he needed an _actual_ bath. He was filthy.

"All right," she said as she focused on her task. "Tell me how this happened." Show-off that he was, she knew he was itching to tell her and the distraction would help them both.

"I was chasing a suspect through a field in the middle of the night. It was cloudy; completely dark."

"Of course it was because running after dangerous criminals in foreign countries is exciting enough, you needed to add pitch blackness and 'random unknown field' to the mix. Continue."

"He ran; I went after him. It's what I do. At any rate, I didn't see - _shit, Molly_!"

"Sorry, Sherlock, I'm doing my best." She had gotten a bit of pink flesh with that last cut. "If we were in a proper hospital…"

"I know you're… It's fine, but obviously the local's starting to wear off." He took a deep breath as Molly fished out another syringe of anesthetic. "So, I couldn't see exactly where I was running. Suddenly I was face first in the mud and my leg was killing me."

"What happened?" she asked as she inserted the needle.

He winced, but continued with his story, "I'd tripped over a bit of broken fencing and raked the side of my calf across some old barbed wire. A couple of the rusted pieces broke off in my leg. I got those out, at least and I did clean it, as best as I could."

 _How is he not dead?_ "What'd you for the pain?"

"I drank a bottle of cheap gin."

"Fucking hell, Sherlock!"

He huffed. "I could have gotten my hands on narcotics, you know. But I didn't."

She paused her work and stared at him. He seemed almost... well, shy about what he'd just said, averting his eyes then cutting them back to hers. "Well, that was good, I suppose. Do you have any other cuts?" She didn't think he did, having seen most of him in the bedroom.

"No. I was lucky, for once."

Molly laughed.

"It was a small bit of fencing. Probably missed when some farmer was changing property lines."

"I'm almost finished," she told him. "It'll need a few stitches and thankfully I brought some strong antibiotics…"

"Anything for pain?" he asked.

"Nothing exciting," she said sadly, wishing she _could_ give him something better than the mild painkillers that she'd brought.

He smiled, really smiled, for the first time. This was no quirk of the lips or smirk at his own joke. He smiled at her but it faded quickly, his eyes becoming haunted. After a few seconds asked, "Why'd you come, Molly? Of all the people he could have contacted, why'd my brother phone for you?"

 _Because I love you, you bastard,_ she heard herself answering, but it was in her head. Turning, she picked through the med kit for silk sutures and a needle. She had flown in a _tiny_ (frighteningly tiny!) private jet, after working a twelve-hour shift to get to him and his chewed up leg. The one thing she was _not_ doing was talking about _that_.

Especially considering that he was the one who had left.

She stitched his leg in silence; thankfully he didn't say another word, didn't ask any more questions.

Twenty minutes later she was finished and helped him back to the bedroom. She gave him an antibiotic and a pain pill then left without a word to sleep in the lounge.

o0o0o0o

She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. Anger and resentment warred with worry and guilt, keeping her wide awake and fuming.

 _How dare he?_

It had been easy at first, to pretend that everything was normal, to laugh and tease. Molly Hooper was an expert at ignoring the elephant in the room and Sherlock Holmes was her own person pachyderm. But if he was going to start asking questions - questions that she _did not_ want to answer and she was going to have to think about that day… that call… those words - things were going to get uncomfortable, for both of them.

She didn't think he'd ever want to talk about it and frankly she was more than happy to oblige.

 _Well, maybe that wasn't what he was getting at,_ she thought. It was a simple question, after all.

 _Why'd you come, Molly?_ It was heavily loaded, though, since they both knew the answer.

On top of all of that, she was terrified about his health. She could only do so much with the supplies that Mycroft had provided. The man needed to be in hospital. He was sick for God's sake and she was a pathologist! This was not her area of expertise!

A soft thud and muffled curse pulled her from her inner turmoil. Getting up, she opened the bedroom door to find Sherlock slumped over onto the floor, trying to drag himself towards the luggage rack that held his opened bag.

"Bloody hell! Do you never learn?"

She tried to help him stand but Sherlock shrugged her off. " _I can do it, Molly,"_ he growled.

"Do what _exactly_ are you doing, Sherlock?" Backing up, she watched as he managed to pull himself to a standing position, wincing with every move. It wasn't just his leg; it was the infection, his muscles ached, that much was obvious. _Yet another sign of sepsis._ The antibiotics she had brought wouldn't be enough to fight a blood infection. He sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, breathing heavily. "Why are you trying to get to your bag?"

"Got a text." _Pant, huff, wheeze_. "There's been another murder."

Molly sighed. Shaking her head she said, "I don't bloody care. You're half dead yourself!"

"I need to get to the sc…" He couldn't finish his sentence because he was suddenly coughing uncontrollably.

Molly rushed to the bathroom and poured him a glass of water. When she came back out, she handed it to him. He took it but didn't drink. _Obstinate prick!_ "You need to get back in that fucking bed!"

He'd yet to look up since sitting at the food on the bench, clearly struggling to steady his breathing, at her admonishment, however, he raised his head and glared. After draining the entire glass, he tossed it onto the floor and said, "Go home, Molly. I didn't ask for you."

A mirthless laugh escaped as she leant down, putting herself eye level with the detective. "I don't care. I am here and I'm not letting you run off to that crime scene."

"What makes you think you can stop me?"

She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. "In your current state, _Rosamund_ could keep you in this room."

Standing abruptly, Sherlock tried to look menacing but failed as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out cold.

o0o0o0o

"... into bed, but I think I pulled a muscle in my back in the process."

" _Are you ready to admit defeat, Molly?"_

"No, Mycroft. He came here for a reason; I don't think dragging him home will solve anything. But I need more supplies."

" _If he's unconscious I could have Jones and McCaffrey carry him to hospital,"_ he offered.

"And as soon as he woke, he'd run. You and I both know that."

" _He hasn't used?"_

"I tested his urine as soon as we got to the suite. That was a fun conversation, by the way."

The man chuckled. " _I'm sure it was."_

"Yes, but at least we know that he's clean." She paused and rubbed her eyes, trying to remember if there were any eyedrops in the medkit. God, but she was tired. "Can you get me what I need?"

She heard him sigh before saying, " _What exactly are you asking for?"_

"It'll be better if it text you a list. I don't want you to miss anything."

" _How sick is he?"_ he asked.

"Much sicker than either of us thought," she answered.

" _And you? Is there anything that_ you _need?"_

 _A hug,_ her mind answered. "No, Mycroft. I'm fine."

" _Somehow I doubt that, but it's the price of admission, isn't it?"_

"I'm sorry?" She was tired, hungry, emotionally strung out and in no mood for Mycroft Holmes' crypticness at the moment.

" _The cost, Molly... at some point it will become too high."_

She had no reply to that because it already was. "I'll send you a text, Mycroft."

" _Fine,"_ he said. " _And, Molly?"_

"Yes?"

" _In case he doesn't say it… thank you."_ He rang off.

o0o0o0o

Goon number one (Jones, she thought) delivered the IV pole and the rest of the medical supplies by dawn. Sherlock didn't even stir as she placed the IV. Fluids and antibiotics drained into him as he lay motionless on the luxurious bed, a cool, wet flannel on his fevered forehead.

There was nothing more she could do for the moment but wait.

Molly sat back in the chair next to him and watched his fitful slumber. Every twenty minutes or so she rewet the flannel, running it over his sweaty face before cooling it off and placing it back on his head. He groaned, he jerked, he writhed but he did not wake.

Sherlock slept; Molly worried and watched. She also did something she had not since sixth form: she prayed.

Finally, exhaustion overtook her and she fell across the bed, one hand on his. Closing her sandpaper eyes, she promised herself that she'd just rest for a moment or two.

" _Loo…"_ Wondering why someone was calling her that, she looked up and found her patient grimacing down at her. " _Need the loo…"_ he whispered, his voice hoarse and gravely.

"Oh!" She woke suddenly and stood. The room spun and she had to hold onto the chair to get her bearings. "Of course," she said as she moved towards him once she felt less dizzy. "Can you stand?"

"No. Just… give me something, for God's sake!" he growled.

Thankfully a urinal was included in the bags of supplies Mycroft had sent. She rushed into the lounge and fished it out of the bag on the floor next to the settee.

Sherlock had removed the layers of blankets when she returned. Holding out his hand, he demanded, "Give it to me, Molly or you'll have one hell of a mess to clean."

She shoved the plastic urinal at him then turned, going back to the lounge. The bags on his IV pole needed changed, so did his bandages. She donned a pair of gloves, knowing that she'd need them immediately. Giving him about ten minutes to… ah, take care of his business, she returned to the bedroom. Refusing to make eye contact, she picked up the nearly full urinal and rushed to the bathroom. She emptied it, rinsed it and brought it back, placing it on the floor next to the bed, then removed her soiled gloves.

"My leg is bleeding again," he said. His voice sounding a bit more normal.

"I'll change the dressing in a mo. You need some water and…"

"I need to get out of here!"

 _And now you're gonna wait have to on that drink of water!_ "You're septic, Sherlock. You won't be well enough to move on your own for at least a week. That is _if_ you didn't damage your kidneys. I have no way of knowing what damage you've done to your internal organs. You need an _actual_ hospital for that kind of diagnosis." She finished replacing the bags, then walked back into the lounge to get the supplies she'd need to attend to his leg. Taking a seat in the chair she'd occupied all night, she laid sterile pad on the duvet, then set up everything she thought she'd need.

"My kidneys are fine- _I'm_ fine."

"Mmhmm…" Rolling her eyes, she put on a fresh pair of gloves. She pulled back the covers then carefully removed the dressing to see that, somehow, he'd managed to rip two of her stitches.

"What have you done?" She hadn't felt him move all night.

He huffed and looked away. "Happened in my sleep," he said as he rubbed his forehead. "How the hell should I know? Maybe it's shoddy craftsmanship."

That stung. It had been years since her surgical rotation, but she was fairly confident that she had done a good job. Besides, she'd been sewing up bodies non-stop for the last fifteen years. Of course they were usually dead…

"You didn't answer my question last night, Molly," Sherlock said fifteen minutes later as she was finishing wrapping his calf.

Even though she knew exactly what he was talking about, she said, "Yeah? And what question would that be? You were pretty out of it last night."

"Why are you here, wasting your time with _me_ of all people?"

Securing the dressing with a bit of silk tape, sat back and removed her gloves. "You're due for another pain pill if you want it."

He nodded.

She stood and started gathering the unused supplies. "I'm ordering something to eat. If you think you can keep it down I'll get you some soup."

"I'm not hungry... but maybe tea."

"Fine," she said as she left the room.

o0o0o0o

She took him his pill along with the tea and a large glass of ice water, not speaking or acknowledging the eyes that followed her every move. He had half filled the urinal whilst she was ordering her meal and tidying the lounge - which had been nothing more than an excuse to stay out of the bedroom - so she emptied and cleaned it once again, leaving it at his bedside. His urine output was not good at all, which pointed to kidney damage or… God, she didn't know. She wasn't a damn GP!

"I'm going to eat," she said, standing in the doorway. "If you need anything call."

"Anything?"

Time stretched as she stared at the shirtless, seriously ill man on the bed. Finally, she said, "Get some rest, Sherlock," and left the room.

The food tasted like ash. She had ordered a club sandwich and cobb salad, but couldn't for the life of her remember why. As hungry as she was each bite took effort.

Picking up her mobile, she found several texts. One from Mycroft, asking for an update. She sent off a brief description of Sherlock's condition and disposition. She didn't expect a reply. Then she answered Mrs. Hudson's, the poor woman was worried about 'her boy'. Molly sent a message filled with pretty lies, saying that he was fine and would probably be home soon. She also thanked the woman for keeping Toby whilst she was gone.

 _John…_

Molly sighed.

It should be him, of course, not her. _John_ was Sherlock's best friend. _John_ was an actual living people doctor. _John_ had forgiven the man for Mary's death, had gotten past the events of the last nine months.

Molly had not.

Her last conversation with him came back to her as she stared at his message.

" _You don't know where he is?" she asked as she put the kettle on the hob._

" _No. He could be anywhere, doing... anything."_

" _I'm sure he's fine, John."_

 _He just nodded, looking a bit lost. "I don't understand it. I mean, I do, I suppose. This has been..." He huffed. "It's fucked up is what it is."_

 _Molly could agree with that._

" _They_ knew _he didn't remember her - or what happened to his friend - but just let him continue the delusion. How could they do that?" he asked, giving her a pointed look as if she had the answers._

" _I have never understood that family. I doubt I ever will."_

 _John had come over and told her everything that had happened, from the explosion to the final confrontation. He was right, it was fucked up._

" _Are… Are you okay, Molly?"_

" _Of course."_

" _I'm just… He didn't even come talk to you about… about that phone call. He owes you an explanation!" He was getting riled up again. "But no! The coward just takes off, running away rather than facing the truth!"_

" _And what would that be, John?" She handed him his tea._

" _Well…" He seemed to think for a moment. "Hell if I know, Molly! But…"_

" _I think I do. And frankly, I'd rather not deal with it at the moment."_

 _Setting his cup on the counter, he stepped closer and placed both his hands on her shoulders. "He cares. You have no idea how he reacted… after."_

 _She shook his head and plastered on a fake smile. "Doesn't matter. He needs you. I'll keep Rosie. I have plenty of holiday time. Bring her here and I'll…"_

" _No, Molls. He needs you, love. Not me. Not this time."_

Was John somehow prescient or had he been cahoots with Mycroft bloody Holmes? Because her mobile rang two days later, seconds after walking into her flat. Within an hour she was packed and flying to Hamburg, Germany.

She picked up her mobile and typed out a message: 'He's fine. Grumpy, septic and trying to get back to the case. But other than reminding me of all the reasons why I DID NOT go into general medicine, everything's okay. I'll try to keep you updated.'

Tossing it onto the coffee table, Molly ate a few more bites of her crap hotel food then lay back on the settee, hoping to get some sleep before her patient needed her again. As long as his temperature remained normal, she could handle everything else. At least she _thought_ she could.

o0o0o0o

Four days after their arrival, he was much improved. Thank God! She was in constant fear of him making a run for it but with Mycroft's men guarding the door she supposed that would fairly difficult, even for Sherlock. He could try to scale the side of the building, of course, but they were on the eleventh floor. It would be quite a feat.

Their interaction had not improved, however. He was still cantankerous, still made his biting remarks and worst of all, he still inquired as to _why_ she was there.

She refused to answer, ignoring his questions and going through the motions of aiding him in his recovery. Once he was officially out of the woods of dying from the infection, her anger at his actions returned… No, it intensified.

He knew the truth now, running from it all was no better than what his family had done. Though she couldn't imagine how difficult it must be to have learnt such things, especially the way he had - being tormented by his psychotic sister - that didn't negate the fact that Sherlock needed to grow up and face his past.

It was early, the sun breaking through the curtains alerting her to the time. Molly woke, sore and in desperate need of the loo and coffee, but first she needed to check on her _patient_.

Making her way into the bedroom, she expected to find him still asleep. Her first task was usually to change his bags and check his dressing.

He wasn't there.

 _Fuck!_

The bathroom door was opened, so she rushed toward it, praying that he was taking a piss. He had been going _somewhat_ on his own since the afternoon before. She found him, completely nude, sat on the edge of the large tub, panting.

"What's this now?" she asked from the doorway.

"Wanted a shower," he replied, sounding winded.

She nodded in agreement. The sponge baths just weren't cutting it anymore. "You need one, but there's no way you'll be able to stand that long."

He looked up. "I assume you have a solution, Doctor."

Some of the dark circles were gone from under his eyes. Four days of antibiotics and fluids had helped. Eating actual food and sleeping had done the rest. She looked at his arm; he had removed his IV. _The idiot!_ More work for her. "A bath, of course." She moved forward, avoiding looking at his exposed penis. "But we need to keep that leg out of the water."

"Obviously," he said in his 'you are a simpleton' tone.

o0o0o0o

It took a lot of maneuvering - and eventually, she _did_ see his goods, there was simply no avoiding it - but they managed, with only a small injury to his left elbow and yet another to her back.

 _Mycroft owes me a spa day after this ordeal. Several actually, including a deep tissue massage,_ she thought as she held a flannel out to Sherlock.

He raised an eyebrow at the piece of cloth, then lay his head back with a contented sigh. "I'm in no shape to bathe myself, Molly. Especially after the brutal way you just tossed me in here. I think you might have broken my elbow."

Molly huffed. _Liar!_

Smirking, he said, "Besides, I can hardly bend to reach anything with my leg trussed up like this." He motioned to the makeshift support she had created to keep his leg out of the water.

No, it wasn't perfect, but he could soak without getting the damn leg wet! "And I suppose you expect me to wash you?" she asked.

"You are my nurse, are you not?"

"Dickhead," she cursed, standing and storming out of the room. She could hear him laughing as she left.

She returned wearing a singlet and shorts, knowing she would undoubtedly get wet during the 'bathing' process. This was her sleeping attire and she had _not_ intended the man to see her in it at any point.

"Oh, it's going to be _that_ kind of bath, is it?" he said as she entered.

Freezing, she stared at the man in the tub. "You just had to make this worse, didn't you?" she said, her voice breaking at the end.

He looked away.

Kneeling at the side of the tub, she picked up the flannel, dipped it into the water and poured some hotel provided body wash onto it.

Somehow, she got through it. Methodically, Molly washed his back, his arms, his chest. She then moved on to his leg, the uninjured one. She even cleaned his right thigh and foot, rinsing them carefully, managing not to get any water in the wound.

Reaching for another flannel, she ran clean water on it and picked up the facial soap from the sink behind her. Soaping it up, she looked him in the face for the first time since his remark. "Do you want to do this? she asked.

His eyes looked sad, remorseful. Shaking his head, he said, "No. Go ahead." After a moment, he added, "Please," without taking his eyes from hers.

She started with this neck, his lovely fucking neck, washing it gently then worked her way up to his jaw. His sharp as glass cheekbones were next. He needed a shave but now wasn't the time. She washed his nose, his forehead, even his ears.

He stared at her the entire time.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock," she said. "I have to rinse you."

And he did as she got yet another flannel, wetting it, then carefully wiped away all of the soap.

"Okay," she said, sitting back on her heels. "All done."

His eyes opened, but he didn't move. "You aren't, actually."

 _Don't you fucking dare!_ her mind screamed at the man, but she could not speak.

"You seemed to have missed a spot, Molly." His voice had never sounded deeper, more seductive, never more dangerous or more threatening. "My bath is… incomplete."

"I'll leave you to that, Sherlock."

"Sorry, but I find myself not quite up to the task at the moment." He cut his eyes down at his crotch.

Feigning ignorance, she said, "Silly me," and picked up the shampoo sitting to her right. "Budge up and I'll wash that filthy hair of yours."

He paused before admitting defeat and sitting upright in the tub. _Ha! Gottcha, Holmes!_

There were little plastic cups in the bathroom, she used one to rinse his curls after giving his head a _very_ aggressive scrubbing, taking her anger out on his scalp. He complained, of course, accusing her of trying to _clean him bald_. She ignored him. Once finished she asked, "Conditioner?" holding up another tiny bottle.

"I don't think my poor follicles could stand it," he replied, rubbing at his head.

As she reached for a towel to dry her hands, he grabbed her wrist. "You are still not finished, I'm afraid."

Her resolve was very nearly gone. She was tired, tired of fighting him, tired of avoiding his questions, tired of his mood swings and those maddening eyes of his following her constantly.

"You're about to prune, Sherlock. We need to get you out of there," she said, hoping it would stop him from asking her to… _Oh, God, please don't ask it of me_ …

o0o0o0o

Pushing himself closer, he got as near her as he possibly could. " _Please, Molly,"_ he whispered. "I must be clean… everywhere." His eyes dropped to her lips as his tongue flicked out, moistening his own. "You are the only one who can do this for me."

 _How… How can you do this to_ _ **me**_ _? How can you ask…? But he always asks for too much, doesn't he?_

As if beyond her control, her right arm rose and dipped into the slightly murky water. The rebellious appendage easily found the one thing she'd been avoiding.

He was hard. So _very_ hard.

She kept her eyes on his, unable to look away; his stare burning her as she gripped him tightly. She stroked him once, then again and again. A hiss escaped his mouth as his eyelids tried to flutter shut but he opened to hers.

Reaching out, he grabbed her by the back of the neck, pulling her forward over the edge of the tub. For a split second, she thought he was going to kiss her. _Foolish girl,_ her mind offered as their foreheads touched, his nails digging into her skin.

" _Yesss,"_ he hissed through gritted teeth. "God, Molly."

Pumping him with her right hand, she added her left to cup his sac.

"Just… Oh, fuck, just don't stop!"

He moved his face into the crook of her neck, panting warm breaths against her overheated skin. His lips brushed her throat, then suddenly a wet hand was on her left breast. Her eyes closed as she did her best not to moan. She would _not_ enjoy this. She must not. Sherlock pinched her erect nipple, not teasing it, but commanding it - _her_ to respond. A whimper escaped her throat.

" _I know. I know,"_ he whispered. "So good… so perfect."

She was lost. Still working his cock, still rolling his balls, she moaned as he sucked on her throat and groped her breast.

"Wish we were in bed," he said softly, directly into her ear. "I'd make you come, Molly. I'd make you come for me over and over." With a gentle press of his lips to her jaw, his hand left her chest to cup her face, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. "Kiss me, Molly. I-I need…"

 _What…?_ What was happening? He looked… _Oh, my God…_

Molly nodded dumbly and inched forward. Even though he'd been ill, his lips were soft, not at all chapped, not rough or dry. His tongue shyly touched her bottom lip and she opened to return the favour. Instantly the kiss changed. He growled, serging closer, gripping her tighter and absolutely devouring her. It was passionate. It was sloppy. It was beautiful.

A grunt and an unexpected thrust of his hips told her that he had finished. Evidently, she'd not stopped stroking him as they made out. She wasn't entirely focused, truth be told.

Pulling away, jerking really, she looked at him, eyes wide. He appeared slightly winded, his eyes closed as he recovered. He stayed that way for a minute, perhaps two before looking over at her, his expression unreadable. Reaching forward, he pulled up the drain stopper.

She sat there on the floor, unsure of what to do next other than avert her eyes. _What have I done?_ Staring at her knees, she waited for him to let her know he was ready to get up; he'd need help and… well, that was her job.

Her mind was racing with the repercussions of their actions. Why had she let him talk her into… _that_? She'd been strong enough not to speak of their phone call or of her reasons for running to his rescue but she was so fucking weak that she'd just given him a hand job in the bathtub! What the hell?

"Molly…"

Looking up, she found him standing in the tub, a towel around his waist, his hair only slightly damp. How had he gotten his leg out of the sling?

"Come," he held out his hand, "let's go lie down."

Still confused, but needing some direction, she rose, taking his hand and watched as he gingerly stepped over the tub wall. _Well, he did that awfully easily._

He led her into the bedroom and pulled back the covers on the bed then looked at her expectantly. Was she supposed to get in?

"What…? I-I need to redress your leg and place a new line and…"

Stepping up to her, he took her face in his hands. "I'm better, in case you didn't notice. I can go without the IV for now and my leg is fine." He smiled. "I've had excellent medical care, you see." Leaning forward, he kissed her chastely. "What I'd like to do is hold you and _try_ to explain some things. Would that be okay?"

"I… s-suppose," she said as she got into bed.

o0o0o0o

He was spooning her. Sherlock Holmes was spooning her in a hotel suite in Hamburg, Germany.

 _O...kay._

"I know you _think_ that you know why I left... but this time, Molly, you are wrong," he said softly from behind her.

None of the lights were on in the room, only a small amount of sun was peeking through the curtained windows.

"I'm not struggling with my sister's psychosis or with Mycroft's lies. I'm not having a breakdown because I've suddenly remembered my dead friend. This isn't about Eurus' games or what she made me do, not really. It's about what she made me realise." His hand traveled down her side, pulling her closer to him before intertwining with hers.

"When I said those words, I didn't know what they meant. I knew that _you_ loved me, though I never knew why, of course. I have wondered, you know. I _have_ thought about it, tried to figure out why- how after everything I've done, everything I've said, you could actually love me. I never managed to find that answer." He chuckled. "You know how much that bothers me." He paused. "Then I did know. It suddenly all made sense. And it was…" Pausing again, Sherlock drew a deep breath. "... unlike anything I've ever experienced before," he said, almost wistfully.

"I have no right to you, Molly. I have no right to ask more of you. I have taken and taken and never really given back."

She was completely speechless. Besides, he had not actually asked a question, so she remained silent.

"That's why I left. If I had stayed I was afraid that if I saw you, if I was near you… I'd _take_ once again. Not unlike I just did." At the end, his voice was shame-filled and sad.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you make…" No, he hadn't made her, hadn't forced himself on her. "Why did you ask me to do that?"

It was several long moments before he answered. "Because I want you, _have_ wanted you for a while. Realising that I'm in love with you has only weakened my barely held resistance. Being cooped up here with you was nearly unbearable." He kissed her shoulder.

Molly pried his arm off of her stomach and turned to face him. It was still dark in the room, but not so much that she couldn't make out his face. "What are you so afraid of, Sherlock?"

He looked over her shoulder, his only real option in their current position if he wanted to avoid her eyes.

"No. You ran to another country and nearly got yourself killed to avoid this conversation, if I understand you correctly, but I'm here now, in your bed and you _will_ answer me."

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply before opening and refocusing them on her. "I am afraid of getting hurt. I am afraid of hurting you. I am afraid of losing you and never finding you again. I am afraid that I love you too much, even more than you love me because this… this feels unnatural. How can people _live_ like this? You couldn't _possibly_ have sustained this kind of all-consuming adoration for me for so many years. I cannot get you out of my head. You're all that I think about. And that scares me too. What if I can't work? What if I can't sustain a relationship _and_ be a consulting detective at the same time? Supposing that I can, what if - and this is a very likely scenario - what if my job puts you in danger?"

" _Breathe,_ for God's sake, Sherlock take a damn breath!" Molly wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, holding him tightly. "It's okay, it' fine," she said, rubbing his back, attempting to comfort him. "You never really stop thinking, do you?"

"Not really," he answered.

"That's… a lot of 'what ifs' you've got there."

"I have more…"

She snickered. "I don't think I want to hear them right now." Leaning back, she stroked his cheeks. "Oh, you idiot," she said with a sigh.

"Why am I an idiot this time?"

"You ran, but the problem just chased you. Then I did. Love won't just bugger off because you tell it to." She grinned. "Trust me on that one."

Finally, he smiled too. "I suppose you tried telling it off a time or two?"

"Almost daily."

He sobered. "I hurt you and I probably will again."

"You'll have to try to stop doing that, of course." Sherlock nodded. "And as for what I've been willing to give… I have always done that with my eyes wide open. I have always known what you could return."

"And now?" he asked, tightening his arms around her. "If I can give… more?"

A wide smile broke out on her face even as a single tear escaped the corner of her eye. "Then I'll take it," she whispered.

* * *

Okay _, that's this one done. Please let me know what you think about my angst-fest. Hope you liked it. Thanks so much for reading. ~Lil~_


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